


burning sensations

by tempted



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Basically 10k+ of sexy bokuaka trying to murder each other, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Married Couple, a Mr and Mrs Smith au, emotionally constipated akaashi, kinda graphic depictions of violence, oikawa is the only best friend ever, plus a little sexual tension, surburban husbands bokuaka, then realising they still love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25207996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempted/pseuds/tempted
Summary: Maybe being assigned to kill each other is exactly what they needed after all. Either one of them dies and another completes a mission, or their deteriorating marriage miraculously resurfaces.It sounds like a win-win situation to Akaashi.orA Mr. & Mrs. Smith au
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 18
Kudos: 128





	burning sensations

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to married rival hitmen bokuaka aka my absolute guilty pleasure
> 
> twt: temptedjihoon  
> cc: https://curiouscat.me/temptedjihoon

Akaashi is so mind-numbingly _bored_. 

He’s been aimlessly partaking in this lacklustre marriage counselling session for way too long and his skin burns and itches in stagnation. Marriage counselling. _Marriage counselling_. 

Akaashi wonders if the world is playing tactless tricks on him by sending him into this. Just barely thirty and already answering gruelling, personal questions about their home life which should be great in actuality. It doesn’t help at all that he’s incredibly irritated by Bokuto’s mere presence in the chair next to him. Bokuto isn’t even doing anything except answer the therapist’s questions honestly and enthusiastically, but that _enthusiasm_ annoys Akaashi beyond belief.

Bokuto definitely isn’t happy right now, Akaashi knows that for sure, they’re at therapy for their failed fucking marriage. Considering their relationship, Akaashi would also like to think that he knows Bokuto well enough to see through and understand his façades. Therefore, he absolutely cannot comprehend why Bokuto keeps putting on that same cheery act. It’s distasteful in Akaashi’s books.

Especially since he can see the way Bokuto is sitting so unnaturally straight, he knows the way Bokuto leans out of his chair when he’s actually interested in something, the way his eyes light up to match his voice, his odd mannerisms and phrases. Right now, Bokuto’s eyes are lifeless and his posture is practiced, but his voice carries tones of fabricated content. Akaashi rolls his eyes in annoyance.

Honestly, Akaashi can’t even say he’s actually listening to what the therapist is asking, all of his words becoming garbled white background noise. Instead, he’s thinking about how much money he’s wasted on this therapy session built on webs of false happiness and deceptive lies.

He sighs, gently.

“When was the last time you had sex?” The therapist asks and it immediately snaps Akaashi out of his convoluted thoughts, because, well, he doesn’t even know.

That renders Bokuto speechless. It renders Akaashi speechless too. 

The previously tense air is now tinged with slight awkwardness that seeps into every crevice. Neither of them speak, simply because neither of them can remember. It’s been a long while since either of them could stand more than a courteous peck. 

Courteous, Akaashi wants to scoff, they’re married and the word he’s using to describe their kisses is _courteous_.

Akaashi does remember a time before, when Bokuto used to hold him with loving tenderness, when Akaashi would look at his husband and feel as if he was floating meters above ground. Life used to be great. It used to be so _good_. The sex used to be so fucking _good_. 

That life is of the past, and Akaashi knows he sounds jaded. That life stays in Spain, where they met eight years ago.

He was flown out to the uncharted lands of Europe on a mission worth a sum of money Akaashi couldn’t even fathom breathing near back then when he was still a novice, a ridiculously skilled novice.

Spain was a beautiful country; the sky often shone in hues of soft pinks and blazing oranges, the people were jovial and pleasant, and he can’t remember the last time he’d ever felt quite on holiday like this. Even though he’d put a bullet in a nefarious gang leader’s head about an hour before.

The guy was an absolute asshole anyway, he didn’t need the case file to tell him that, nor does it really help that Akaashi’s not really one known for high levels of remorse or empathy. Ah, well.

He’d just returned to the hotel when armed police forces and hardened gang members swarmed his place of temporary residence with intimidating, unleashed fury. Of course the police would be in cahoots with notorious gangs like this. He’d known immediately they were there for him. 

Akaashi remembers the bustle of fearful commotion around him and the confusion that had filled the air when they’d walked in with guns visibly on their persons and the notable metallic smell of blood wafting off of their clothes. Akaashi didn’t even blink. 

Upon his entrance, Akaashi’d eyed an alluring figure seated at the bar, who’d held his eye contact in a manner that sparked tingles in spine. His gaze was observing, even slightly playful, as if he was watching an episode of his favourite tv show play out. He was much too calm for the situation at hand. 

They’d caught that same eye contact when police officers had stalked up to Akaashi, questioning him in a blunt, aggressive Spanish dialect that Akaashi feigned ignorance towards. They were looking for a lone, asian tourist, but had specified no gender. It could be anyone, really. Even the man at the bar.

Something in the playful glint of the eccentric haired man’s eyes told Akaashi that he knew he was faking his incompetence in the Spanish language. 

They’d promtly begun asking him if he was alone, tone abrasive to entice intimidated answers, and Akaashi kept responding in either Japanese or falsely stunted Spanish. In actuality, he probably spoke their own language better himself, a wide plethora language classes coming as mandatory for the training he positively grovelled in for this job.

Not a moment had passed, before another voice appeared by his side, smoothly conversing with the officers in their mother tongue. Akaashi’d felt an arm slide around his waist and the white haired man claiming in Spanish that no, Akaashi was not alone simply because they were together.

Akaashi smirked at his behaviour. How strange.

Once the officers had finally moved onwards, the man reluctantly detached himself from Akaashi’s side, and adopted an amiable grin.

“I’m Bokuto,” he’d introduced cheerily, eyes flitting from that narrow, observant gaze to an excitable softer tone in seconds, eagerly extending a palm towards Akaashi. Akaashi fought the temptation to take it.

Choosing not to introduce himself just yet (he had to keep his air of mystery), he leaves Bokuto’s hand hanging and instead leans against the bar countertop, slyly meeting this curious character’s gaze. “So, why’d you help me out back there, Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto visibly fumbled in his response, obviously caught off guard. Akaashi fights a smile. “I mean, they’d have just moved on to me next,” he’d gestured towards himself, “alone, a tourist, asian.”

Akaashi finally allowed himself to smile softly, he did have a point. 

“Plus, you’re pretty. The opportunity was calling to me.” Bokuto says, a slight red tinging his cheeks in embarrassment. Akaashi uselessly fights the grin that threatens to break out.

“I’m Akaashi.” This time, it was Akaashi’s turn to initiate a handshake by extending his right arm, and they’d both softly laughed when Bokuto’d playfully denied like Akaashi had, before grasping tightly onto his hand. 

Bokuto had a nice smile, Akaashi had noted, along with the fact that his hands were large, warm and calloused. Bokuto probably did some kind of tedious manual labour. Regardless, they were certainly nice hands to hold onto.

Later that evening, Akaashi does in fact find out that Bokuto is involved in work that’s unkind to the hands, construction in fact. He’d also found out that that Bokuto was from Japan, and they were catching the same flight back in two days.  
To which, they’d naturally slipped into their mother tongue upon this revelation. 

(For what it’s worth, it wasn’t really that hard to guess that he was Japanese anyway, if the name Bokuto was a hint).

They’re at the hotel diner, and during their lengthy, natural conversation, Akaashi tipsily orders more wine in fluent Spanish with complete disregard to his previous actions and surroundings, to Bokuto’s obvious satisfaction and amusement. 

It seems as though once Bokuto has alcohol in him, his childishly excitable exterior fades slightly and lethality is thrown in the mix. Akaashi very quickly finds out that Bokuto’s lazy smirks are very dangerous for his heart.

“So you do speak Spanish, huh?” Bokuto finally speaks, eyeing Akaashi expectantly over his glass, and a slow smirk takes over. There he goes again, Akaashi thinks, and so do the butterflies in his stomach.

“You caught me,” Akaashi laughs, and can’t even bring himself to curse his stupidity at not even being able to keep his cover. He doesn’t even care, Bokuto’s fun to be around.

(He fights the years of training that tell him that this could be his final mistake. He’s to trust no-one.)

Bokuto doesn’t even ask any questions, instead standing slowly from the table and offering a palm towards Akaashi for the second time today, “wanna dance?”

Staring up at Bokuto leaves Akaashi no other option but to admire his alluring features. Maybe it’s simply due to the elegant, cocoa atmosphere of the Spanish diner that leaves him ethereal in the mood lighting, skin glowing golden, but Akaashi is being devilishly tempted as minutes pass and his praised self control leaves him in seconds. He’s smiling unabashedly as he takes Bokuto’s hand for the first time.

Akaashi senses practised familiarity in Bokuto’s steps as they move in harmony, and wonders if Bokuto does actually have background in dance. 

“You’re good.” Akaashi murmurs into Bokuto’s neck, the strum of guitar strings and live vocals drowning out behind them. Bokuto grins, and Akaashi can tell he appreciates the compliment,  
“I know what I’m doing.” 

Akaashi can definitely tell, and he chuckles into the juncture of Bokuto’s neck in lieu of a response. Bokuto smells really good, Akaashi thinks, a mixture of timber and fall, whatever that means. Akaashi doesn’t have time to ponder this thought however, as he feels Bokuto’s palm slowly lower to the small of his back. Akaashi unconsciously presses closer. 

He feels numbingly drunk but he knows his alcohol tolerance is definitely greater than two glasses of delicate wine. He’s beginning to think Bokuto has a dangerous effect on him, and laughs aloud at his own ridiculousness. 

Bokuto raises an eyebrow and nudges him in questioning, to which Akaashi just brushes off, changing the subject, “Say, Bokuto-san. What’s your most favourite thing in the entire world?”

“Why’d you wanna know that?” He asks, laughing amiably and when Akaashi shrugs, he adopts a teasing lilt to his tone, “maybe I’ll tell you some other time.”

The tension between them is palpable now and Akaashi’s nothing but pleased when they fall crashing into his hotel room, Bokuto’s hands securly wrapped around his thighs as he presses him against the wall adjacent to the door, hips flush against each other and mouths moving in tandem.

When Bokuto pulls away, the visual Akaashi is graced with is nothing short of sinful. Bokuto’s lips are lips swollen pink and his hair mussed, falling into his eyes, from the sheer amount of times Akaashi ran his hands through it. Akaashi feels way too hot considering the cool temperature of the room.

“I like owls,” Bokuto breathes finally, as he lowers Akaashi gently on the bed. Raising an eyebrow in confusion, Akaashi tilts his head to the left. Bokuto explains, “earlier. Earlier, you asked what my favourite thing in the world was. It’s owls.”

A moment of filled silence overcomes the two as Akaashi processes the odd information he’s just received, before he breaks out into dumbfounded laughter. They’re still having difficulty controlling their giggles even as Bokuto attempts to remove his shirt charismatically and Akaashi instantly knows exactly how he wants his night to end. 

(The hard, tempting lines of Bokuto’s abs definitely do not influence him.)

-

Akaashi’s eyes shoot open as soon as pale light streams through the curtains, like they always do. He can barely feel Bokuto’s presence beside him, but he never does, not when they sleep on polar opposite sides of the bed. It’s been five years, waking up next to Bokuto everyday, but it wasn’t always as painfully soulless as this.

For lack of a better adjective, their marriage has become incredibly stagnant. Their routine is the same every morning, Akaashi waking up hours earlier than Bokuto, checking his missions for the day and figuring out how to lie about his work. Honestly, Akaashi thinks he’s done pretty good having Bokuto believe that he works in real estate for the entirety of the eight years they’ve known each other. 

Bokuto earns good money working in construction, _really_ good money. He matches Akaashi’s income without struggle, something he commends, seeing as he’s not one to take anything less than the equivalent of half a million dollars. Then again, Bokuto’s a highly qualified manager of some sort in the big leagues, so Akaashi’s not really surprised.

Money definitely isn’t the issue. Everything else is. They’re stunted around each other, passive aggressive in every single sense of the words. Even prolonged eye contact is awkward. When did things get so bad? Maybe it’s because Akaashi’s entire life with Bokuto is built on a web of lies to hide his work identity, but he’s not really sure.

He feels Bokuto shuffle beside him, and unintentionally sighs at the prospect of his husband being awake and having to deal with him. 

Rigidly, Akaashi tenses as Bokuto sits up with a groan, stretching his arms out in front of him. He turns to face away from his husband. Bokuto’s silent for a few moments, before he quietly murmurs Akaashi’s name but he keeps dead silent, and pretends to still be asleep. 

Tension vibrates in the air momentarily before Bokuto sighs audibly as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, and Akaashi knows that Bokuto knows he’s awake. 

It’s hard, living like this. 

Akaashi gets up begrudgingly a few minutes later, and joins Bokuto in the bathroom who’s brushing his teeth vigorously. Though their marriage has definitely seen better days, Akaashi can always appreciate a shirtless Bokuto.

His husband has always kept himself in top form, religiously working out multiple times a week since the day they’d met. Akaashi can’t lie and say it hasn’t paid off, with the way his abs glisten with temptation in the morning light. It’s been too way long, Akaashi thinks.

He’s barely turned on the tap before Bokuto’s already slamming the shower door shut with all of his usual fervour, and bullets of water cascade down the translucent plexiglass. A soft, pleasant hum drifts through the air as Bokuto lets himself get carried away. 

It’s unexpected to most, but Bokuto has a lovely voice. His singing voice is timbre and hoarse in all of the best ways, a charming point. Akaashi remembers the days Bokuto would sing for him in comfort or for leisure, when the small things still counted.

Nostalgic, Akaashi thinks about a time where Bokuto would have teasingly tempted him to join, whisking him away into the shower with minimal effort. He remembers laughing himself effortlessly stupid, Bokuto’s mere presence bringing endless grins on his face.

It’s been a while since Akaashi has thought like this, usually falling into a simple routine of existence emotionally separate from his husband, free from this nostalgic flame. Akaashi won’t lie and say it doesn’t sting to reminisce.

As usual, bokuto takes no more than ten minutes in the shower, after which Akaashi swiftly enters after him. 

As usual, they don’t speak a word. 

-

While he’s tugging on the zipper to the leather corset he’s been instructed to wear as part of his cover acting as an escort, Akaashi silently wonders what lengths he’s gone to for a mission, the craziest things he’s done.

Dressing in female dominatrix attire is certainly one of the tamest of ordeals. To be honest, Akaashi actually thinks he quite likes the feel of the textured leather against his bare skin, though hidden underneath his suit. The latex rubbing against the material of his slacks has him feeling a strange sort of euphoria he can’t even begin to explain.

Akaashi stares at the thigh high socks and boots laying on the bed in contemplation, eventually deciding to keep them in his car until the time was necessary. Briefly, he wonders if Bokuto would have liked to see him in thigh highs. Something itches at him with the answer _yes_.

Downstairs, he’s about to prepare breakfast for himself (and Bokuto if he hadn’t eaten yet) but he doesn’t really seize a chance to even ask, Bokuto barely staying long enough for a goodbye kiss, grabbing an apple and swinging the door shut behind him.

Unusual, Akaashi thinks, slightly stunned. Normally Bokuto is able to eat for an entire country, a type of insatiable hunger he says stems from his younger volleyball days. He makes a mental note to ask about his hastiness later tonight. 

-

Akaashi is used to being sent on bizarre missions to kill even stranger targets but this man takes the cake. In briefing, Oikawa did in fact warn him to be wary, and not to let his guard down. 

Their target was pretty tightly secured and protected at all times, but it just so happened to be in their favour that he was a sleazy asshole who partook in the pass-time of hiring escorts, of which would typically never return. A perfect window for infiltration without arising any suspicion.

His apparent bad habit of calling for numerous prostitutes, only for them to end up missing days later sends annoyance drumming through Akaashi’s veins. He can already predict what he’ll be dealing with, an abusive, internally homophobic misogynist with a likely trail of bodies behind his tracks. 

However, Akaashi’s agency has only been contacted for the target’s accusations of arms and weapons trafficking to dangerous organisations, and honestly that’s the icing on the cake. It’s one less instigator to the end of the world, in Akaashi’s books.

His assistant and tech support, Oikawa, was definitely not lying when he was warning Akaashi to tread carefully. He can physically feel the predatory danger wafting off of this man, and he’d like to be done and dusted with this mission as soon as possible.

The way the targets eyes sleazily roam all over Akaashi’s body makes him terribly uncomfortable with the feel of the latex rubbing against his skin, and he instantly regrets fantasising about wearing such an outfit for Bokuto. Their marriage may be in shambles but he definitely does not want to associate any pleasant memories of Bokuto with this man.

Akaashi’s relaxing into his role as he routinely surveys the room around him for any threats or valuable information. It’s incredibly lavish but it’s been a while since Akaashi felt shock over colossal, distasteful displays of money. Oftentimes, a large sum of wealthy people’s riches is _dirty money_. Akaashi would know.

The guy is an asshole and it radiates off of him, terrified to give up his power and admit his attraction to the same sex so he hires escorts and prostitues to fulfil his desires, abusing them afterwards to reclaim his fragile sense of authority. If Akaashi wasn’t so desensitised to dickheads, he’d probably throw up. 

It’s sickening, watching the target get off to Akaashi’s mean words, knowing he probably plans to silence or kill him afterwards, then proceed to sell wide ranges of devastating guns to terrible organisations. 

The target’s sitting on the expensive hotel couch with Akaashi behind him and hands on his shoulders, almost completely oblivious and disarmed, and Akaashi senses opportunity. 

Periodically, he glances towards the locked penthouse door and calculates that the security outside knock for affirmation around every fifteen minutes. It’s been about five minutes since they last knocked, so Akaashi should have time to exact his mission and escape before suspicion arises.

He doesn’t want to miss this window and have things go left quicker than they need to. After all, Akaashi was specifically requested not to take out any extra personnel.

He resumes the path his hands are taking across the target’s chest, whispering degrading filth into his ear that leaves him emotionless. Gradually, the target’s eyes flutter close and Akaashi sees fit to strike. He mutters something about selling “big guns to bad people” in his ear, to which he briefly watches the target’s eyes widen in blazed, muted realisation before securing one hand underneath his chin, another atop his head and pulling roughly to the left. The target drops limply to the floor.

Acting quickly with practised ease, he taps into his in-ear and informs the team that he’s dispatched the target, and needs pickup. He’s still updating Oikawa while grabbing a long coat to cover his choice attire, when brusque knocks sound at the door.

Instantly, Akaashi susses out that the sudden silence must have made the security slightly suspicious. He knows his time is limited.

The knocks grow increasingly forceful as no response comes from within the penthouse, and it’s not long before Akaashi can hear them attempting to break through the doors.

Eventually, the mahogany doors swing aggressively open, guns glinting and aimed, but Akaashi’s already made way through the windows and now sits leisurely in Iwaizumi’s car that was stationed outside as a taxi. 

Immediately, Akaashi feels his phone buzz with the notification that sixty-four million yen has been successfully transferred to his bank account. He relaxes into his seat at the sight, as Iwaizumi fiddles with the radio, drowning out the sound of him conversing with Oikawa on the phone and allows the night city to pass him by.

-

Due to Akaashi’s outward indifference, and Bokuto’s general distaste for arguments or still tension hanging over their heads, they seldom fight, instead getting by with ignoring each other’s existences for most of the day

But not always.

Sometimes, both of their tempers are cut short and unspoken annoyance tinges the air heavily. It doesn’t take much for them to begin arguing on days like these.

Akaashi’d been in a sour mood since returning home from his mission, unable to shake the uncomfortable memory of his earlier target, and more so because of the lack of compensation from the client for not clearing out security like they said they would.

Akaashi could have been in serious trouble if he were clumsier and less experienced.

As for Bokuto, Akaashi’s been able to sense his irritation since earlier that morning, when he’d left without so much as a goodbye. Now he sits on the couch while Akaashi attempts to hang some new curtains, brooding and visibly exasperated, a sight that serves to piss Akaashi off even more for reasons he can’t even justify.

To make matters even worse, Bokuto keeps calling the curtains Akaashi’d waited painful, long weeks for, ugly. Akaashi clenches his teeth in mute exasperation.

It’s childish, he tells himself, arguing over curtains is _childish_

But it’s the way his mood is bringing the atmosphere crashing down, and Akaashi knows he’s no role model either. He can only imagine the exasperated expression that must be engraved in his features. Only Bokuto could make him feel this irrational, childish anger.

He takes a deep, (positively useless) calming breath and tries for conversation instead, like a functioning, mature adult but leaves wishing he never bothered, “You were in a rush this morning?”

Bokuto’s response is short and curt and Akaashi’s seconds from resorting to his favourite mode of self expression; the piercing cold silence he uses to ice his husband out that Bokuto _despised_ , “I was.”

Akaashi forces a smile, but it probably looks more threatening than anything else, “Is everything okay?”

Sighing heavily and audibly, Bokuto looks pointedly at Akaashi, who instantly levels out his precarious position of balancing on one chair leg to hang his curtains in a fashion only a trained individual would be able to hold, “Everything is fine, Akaashi. I just had to catch an early train; meeting times changed.”

Something about this story sits extremely poorly with Akaashi, like a piece is subtracted from the equation, his killer intuition striking alarm bells. Why would a meeting scheduled a week before be suddenly shifted, and earlier if that? 

But beyond that, the immediate issue is Bokuto’s tone, which strikes Akaashi as unreasonably irate. Akaashi bristles and burning irritation flares a warning in his system, while he steps down from the chair, “why are you being like this, Bokuto-san?”

“Oh, so I’m ‘Bokuto-san’ now?” His husband raises an eyebrow and scoffs in amusement, an expression of which Akaashi wants to punch straight off of his face, but he suppresses his desire.

“I’ve been calling you Bokuto-san for _years_ , I don’t know why you’re so upset now?” The way his husband forces his voice into a high pitched whiny register at the name makes Akaashi’s insides scream in rage at the sheer condescendance of his behaviour.

Bokuto gets up sharply and moves as if he’s going to go upstairs, “just leave it, Akaashi.”

Akaashi guffaws in disbelief and leans on the side of the window in an attempt to not lunge at his husband, “You want me to leave it, but you’re the one being an asshole?”

Clearly, Bokuto’s getting as agitated as Akaashi, so he chooses to just leave the situation to fester untouched as Bokuto said, brushing past him roughly in a beeline towards their room, “Forget it. We have dinner next door at 8.”

-

Akaashi fucking hates his neighbours, and he absolutely despises when they invite them over for dinner.

For some unknown, unexplained reason, the couple next door seem to believe that since he and Bokuto do not have any children, they are incredibly lonely and unhappy, and have taken the role upon themselves to surround and influence them to have kids as often as possible regardless of their own personal wishes.

Akaashi can’t say he likes children and he hates teenagers even more, especially the select two that instantly come to mind who have grown a strange attachment to him at work, Hinata and Kageyama; sons of rival agents who’ve come to work for a neutral company, the same one Akaashi works for. They follow him around like dogs, and pester him with queries regarding how to get better in their field, and how to confess to each other which blows Akaashi’s mind.

He wouldn’t know, it’s not like he’s been married for the past five years or anything.

Honestly, Akaashi just wants to go home.

Today, they’ve invited a plethora of different families and local residents, much to Akaashi’s distaste as there are very few people he’s fond of in this neighbourhood and the constant chatter is making his head hurt.

Even Bokuto, who thrives in social situations, seems to be uncomfortable and unnaturally stiff, sitting with a tense arm secured around Akaashi’s shoulder.

The parents of the children running all around them are probably attempting to socialise with him, but Akaashi can’t bring himself to listen nevertheless actually engage in conversation, save for a few well timed nods, and false affirmative questions.

His mind is running through scattered thoughts and scenarios, when suddenly the lady who’s been engaging in an entirely one sided conversation with him (not that she evidently minded), suddenly trails off towards the end of her sentence. Akaashi immediately snaps out of his disinterest with haste, and follows her line of vision down to the side of his neck.

He’d forgotten about the litter of bruises that lay there, a commemoration of a tough battle with a target who’d apparently been a fan of suffocation a couple days before. Akaashi sighs, he’d already had to explain this away once to Bokuto, speaking of which had been led of into another room by a group of young children.

“I work in real estate.” Laughing insincerely, Akaashi smiles at the woman’s confused expression, “We met with an unstable client who’d run into some serious personal problems prior to our meeting. He’d gotten aggressive before we could do anything, but he’s out of our care and in police hands now.”

The woman’s eyes widen in gullible shock and she begins going on about how unprofessional people could be in the world of work. 

Akaashi smiles sympathetically and zones out once again. When he’d first relayed this story to Bokuto, on the night the bruises were still purple and fresh, he’d initially been furious and offered to personally teach the “client” a lesson, but Akaashi’d immediately diffused his anger with soothing tones and reassurance. 

Bokuto treated his wounds later that night with extreme care and finesse, despite Akaashi’s protests that he could do it himself.

-

Work is hectic the next day, and the splitting headache he’d woken up with hinders his efficiency and intellect massively. He probably shouldn’t have drunken anything yesterday but the screams of the children were becoming unbearable without anything in his system.

Today Bokuto had almost caught him accessing the hidden compartment he’d had built into the side of the kitchen wall stashed with a plethora of high grade weaponry and lethal poisons, and that’s how he instantly knew that today was most certainly not going to be his day.

The doors to the assassination work offices innocently posing as a high rise finance building slide open in front of him with a flourish, and once he enters the second set of locked doors where all the magic really happens, he’s instantly bombarded with people updating him of the status of previous targets and possible future missions.

It seems he can’t even escape the curse of children, as today Hinata and Kageyama appear to be extremely irritated by each other’s presences, and are making it very known to the entire office through loud exchanges, and choice vocabulary decisions. This is why Akaashi is advocating for a separate department.

He practically ignores it all until he spots Oikawa, his tech, advisor and number one best friend at his usual spot on one of the computers in the general room near his own office.

He leans on the side of Oikawa’s desk curiously, “what’s new?”

Oikawa closes a page which suspiciously looks like social media exchanges between his newest conquest, Iwaizumi, and throws a peace sign towards Akaashi by way of greeting, “Same old same old. People need killing.”

Akaashi scoffs at the sentiment.

-

It’s way too fucking hot for Akaashi to be trying to assassinate someone with elegance and efficiency. 

He’s stationed at some sort of abandoned outpost in the middle of nowhere, situated conveniently en route of his target. 

At this point, Akaashi’s been in the field long enough that he no longer cares to read and judge target profiles and backgrounds in order to sleep with a clear conscience, the unwritten rule he’d learnt being that if someone was willing to pay literal _millions_ for you to die, it was probably best for you to not be around anyways.

All he knows is what his target looks like, and the vehicle he’d be approaching inside in approximately ten minutes, if Oikawa’s blabbering in his in-ear meant anything.

He’s now used to picking out the important bits of information in the waffle his best friend likes to present him with at the oftentimes inappropriate setting of a _mission_ , in the way he’d only ever do with Akaashi since believe it or not, Oikawa actually had the capacity to be fully competent tech support.

“When he reaches about 200 yards north from your position, he’ll trigger the fail safe bombs around his vehicle that I’ll blow should you fail to snipe him or god forbid, blow him up.” Oikawa advises, sighing deeply and obviously dreading the cleanup process that comes along with each and every mission he’s assigned to, and Akaashi can hear the silent plea of _try not to make a mess_ within his words.

Oikawa suddenly becomes serious, “And remember Akaashi, this is the only point of vulnerability throughout his entire journey. Don’t mess this up.”

Oikawa promptly returns to detailing a lovely story about one of his and Iwaizumi’s numerous dates that he knows full well Akaashi isn’t listening to. Evidently, Oikawa has confidence Akaashi will complete his mission, like all others.

Akaashi is steadily losing focus, the overbearing heat getting to him but the gritty sound of an engine roaring in the distance snaps Akaashi into action, immediately staring into the digital scope on his sniper rifle. Akaashi instantly feels as if something’s off, not when the target shouldn’t be here so early, it’s only been about five minutes since Oikawa announced he’d be ten. 

He blinks twice with his left eye into the machine, triggering a zoom in on his sights, and his blood runs cold. He instantly knows exactly what’s going on simply from the sight of what the vehicle approaching has securely attached to the back; a fucking rocket launcher.

There’s someone else on the mission.

Oikawa’s voices sounds in his ear, but it registers distant, foggy, “is everything alright? We’re picking up an unidentifiable vehicle. A civilian?”

Akaashi stares down into the scope, waiting, predatory, for the driver to halt and step out of the vehicle so he can eliminate him before he affects his mission, “definitely not a civilian.”

The small, obnoxiously red sports car drives recklessly and erratically, and Akaashi feels the surge of anger begin to escalate when Oikawa starts to worriedly announce that the vehicle is currently hurtling over the wiring and tech specifically set up for the failsafe bombs (that Nishinoya, their demolitions expert, specifically coded) to be activated and they’re greatly losing range.

Akaashi is positively fuming by the point the driver steps out of his vehicle, dressed as if on summer vacation, save for the beanie that covers his head. Odd choice. 

He leaves himself no time to contemplate on the asshole’s fashion choices before he’s aiming perfectly and pulling the trigger, the suppressed sound of a streamlined bullet piercing through the air sounding right by his ear.

The satisfaction Akaashi’s struck with as his chance rival stumbles at the bullet that most likely pierces his shoulder is relatively short lived, as he watches him strip his shirt momentarily to remove the bullet from his vest.

By this point it’s confirmed, this was no civilian, and at the moment Akaashi’s more concerned about killing this interference more than his actual target.

Oikawa’s rambling something about the target being in vincinity, but Akaashi pays it no mind, occupied with the sudden overwhelmingly urgent problem of staring directly down the barrel of a rocket launcher and the pixelated view of a man’s face.

Something about his figure ignites an unsettling feeling in the pits of his stomach, the feeling of unmistaken familiarity.

Moments later however, Akaashi’s busy leaping off a height of twenty feet from the edge of his shitty, poorly supplied base, as the scalding blast from the scorching explosion behind him lurches him forwards another twenty feet.

This was supposed to be an _easy_ mission. But for the first time, he’d let a target get away.

-

Akaashi has never been so fucking angry, livid to the point where even his skin feels hot to the touch, and his words are shooting out clipped and coarse like a ruthless venom.

Back at headquarters he’s surrounded by bustling medical staff, working swiftly to peel his shirt off of his back and assess the tender, glaringly red singed skin. There are all kinds of mysterious, smarting substances being applied to his burn wounds but he can barely feel the pain of the chemicals soaking into unprotected, open skin as he glowers in frustration.

Oikawa’s right beside him and demanding for updates on what exactly had transpired back at the site, but Akaashi can seldom speak, so ashamed and impossibly enraged at the prospect of failing a mission.

Looking upon him with empathy lacing his gaze, Oikawa pats Akaashi’s left shoulder which isn’t burnt, and then proceeds to deliver the worst news ever; “the boss wants to speak with you about what happened, but honestly you don’t have to talk to him right now if you don’t want, I can make up an excuse or someth-“

Something in Akaashi tugs at the rare care Oikawa shows, willing to break the rigid rules of the company in front of countless staff members to protect his friend. He sure behaved like it most of the time, but Oikawa wasn’t actually an ass. “It’s okay, ‘kawa. Call him.”

With a breath of deep preparation, Akaashi accepts the phone Oikawa gingerly offers him and rests it against his ear but immediately regrets doing so once he hears the booming volume of the boss’s displeased shouting, “You’re one of my best, Akaashi! I can’t afford for you to make stupid, emotionally driven mistakes, you know better than that.”

Akaashi’s cheeks tinge pink, terribly unused to being on the receiving end of such criticism and scolding. 

“You know the rules, Akaashi. We don’t leave witnesses. You have 72 hours to clean the scene.”

That’s the part Akaashi was dreading to hear, the cleanup process that he’d have to undertake or risk being dropped. It meant finding the interfering agent, and dispatching him before problems arose for either him or the company. 

The call ends promptly and Akaashi’s left festering a growing, toxic combination of fear, embarrassment and a burning anger that leaves him at a loss.

Eventually, he decides to break away from the crowd surrounding him to treat his words, exiting through the doors and into the computer room with an aura so strong nobody dares follow him except Oikawa Tooru.

-

Akaashi has to say, the tech and research team is filled with probably his most favourite people in the entire company (not that there’s dying selection to choose from). 

They’re quiet, respectful of each other’s space, and have acquired complimentary senses of humour that mesh well together to make Akaashi not want to die as soon as he sets foot in the building, pun unintended.

Shimizu is humbly impartial to any and everything, an easy source for advice and a listening ear to heartfelt breakdowns of emotions when Akaashi feels everything is becoming slightly too much.

Kyoutani is an odd cross between a field agent and background research analysist who simply goes wherever necessary, that Akaashi hasn’t quite figured out a relationship with yet; still slightly awkward around his volatile, hot headed personality but trustworthy all the same. He also knows how to get a job _done_.

The rest, Kunimi, Sugawara, Oikawa, Yamaguchi and Tsukishima are scattered somewhere on the spectrum between the two polar opposites of Shimizu and Kyoutani and all in all congregate to form a pretty efficient team in almost all aspects. Especially with regards to finding out exactly who someone is.

So when the pair burst into the computer room; Akaashi barely dressed and evidently in bad shape, half of them are visibly startled, Shimizu and Sugawara immediately jumping into concerned action to get a story out of them, and the rest typing away rapidly on their computers once they’d caught wind of the situation.

Oikawa’s taken over explaining, while Shimizu runs over to get Akaashi a new shirt, and concludes the story with finality, “So, we have a new target. Let’s find out who he is.”

-

As his colleagues work tirelessly at sharing leads and tracking down exactly who had had the audacity to attempt to intercept his mission today, Akaashi grows increasing agitated at the lingering, nagging feeling that he recognises the obnoxious, rival assassin from _somewhere_.

Although he’d been unable to get a good look at their face or even their hair due to the magnification limit on his supplies and the frustrating resolution cap on his digital scope, it’s something in his mannerisms, his stature, the way he’d walked, the way white teeth had glinted as Akaashi stared down at the barrel responsible for his less than extensive injuries. 

But he just can’t place it.

“Akaashi, it’s your husband,” a familiar voice sounds a familiar phrase, Oikawa answering his husband’s call on the work phone, “he says dinner’s at 7.”

He’s affirming the time with a sigh when something strange washes over Akaashi, and he suddenly feels like exactly where he recognises the other assassin is at the tip of his tongue, but it’s gone as soon as it came. It had to have definitely been somebody he knows, or the feeling wouldn’t have been so persistent, so convincing. 

There aren’t many times that Akaashi is wrong.

-

It had been frustrating him, nagging him for the better part of three hours before a switch finally flicks into place on his way home and he finally comes to an awakening realisation that the other assassin had an uncanny resemblance to his husband, Bokuto, and he’s so relieved at resolving the irritating feeling that he almost crashes his car.

The more he thinks about it, the more he’s certain the person he was thinking of was Bokuto, and the uncanny coincidence of their actions being so similar is almost unsettling. From the wild eccentricity of bringing a rocket launcher to dispatch one single target, to the way he walked, the figure of his stature. 

Their five year long marriage, and eight year long past leaves Akaashi certain that he knows almost all there is to Bokuto’s mannerisms, personality and odd quirks, it’d be hard to be ignorant when his husband was such an open book at all times.

Momentarily, Akaashi begins to doubt and slowly redact that statement. Suddenly, memories of Bokuto’s sudden, mysterious departures for meetings and consultations that were barely scheduled a day before come to light, and every time Akaashi playfully jabbed him only for his husband to wince scarily accurately, almost like he was in actual pain.

Akaashi suddenly feels his blood run cold, and a sense of foreboding runs through his veins. Out of nowhere, he suddenly feels incredibly insecure of the life he’s created with Bokuto, as if he’d voluntarily become selectively blind to the suspicious behaviours in his act. 

Now he’s fit the pieces, Akaashi’s almost certain. He’s also never wrong.

But he needs to make sure. 

-

Akaashi’s burning with overflowing interest and curiosity as soon as he unlocks the door to the smell of home cooked food wafting through their suburban home. It’s almost comforting.

He’s sure Bokuto hears the exact moment he enters, as he’s meeting Akaashi at the front door not even moments later, whisking him away into the dining room with passion and kindness so starkly different to the growing tension that’s been festering between the married couple over the past few days.

Akaashi decides to play along though confused, indulging in the meaningless small talk Bokuto incites and accepts the arm that snakes around his waist in his stride as they pour themselves glasses of delicate wine in the kitchen.

Of which Akaashi sips only once, slipping the rest into one of Bokuto’s plants, fully intending on remaining sober tonight. He also grabs a knife and attempts to inconspicuously slide it up his sleeve, but Bokuto seems to be adamant about not leaving Akaashi alone, and sidles up to him the moment he touches the blade, disarming him with the promise of doing all the work tonight.

He raises an eyebrow at the feeling of Bokuto applying pressure to his back, just shy of the plethora of sensitive burn wounds on his body, but thinks nothing of it, if not slightly wary.

It’s a scene he’s used to, sitting opposite Bokuto at the dinner table, barely conversing and tense but today Bokuto is intent on making conversation happen between the two. If there weren’t such awkward circumstances, Akaashi’d probably be stupidly swoony over the likeness of their old dynamic.

“How was work?” The sound of the slide of Bokuto’s cutlery only slightly unnerves Akaashi.

Akaashi smiles almost politely, sheathing a taunting game-like expression beneath, “double booking with another firm, actually, lots of hell about it.”

The glint in Bokuto’s eyes hints to Akaashi that maybe, there was more than one player participating, but it’s gone in a moment, and instead he’s saying “I hope everything goes well, ‘Kaashi!”

Feeling himself smile once more, he places his own cutlery down, suddenly not hungry anymore, “Not yet, Bokuto-san, but things will be okay.”

The threat is now out in the open, and Akaashi analyses Bokuto’s response, of which is normal, nothing out of likely Bokuto fashion but Akaashi knows better.

It’s a dinner filled with thick tension caused by a common silent knowledge and constantly observing eyes, a game between cat and mouse, a push and pull, evenly matched. This is the most fun he’s had in this house in a _long_ time.

“What about you, Bokuto-san? How was work?”

Bokuto relaxes into his chair, but his eyes are unmoving; ever observant, “We ran into some problems ourselves.”

Nodding understandably, Akaashi hums lowly, “big deal?”

“Life or death.” 

The slick grin that crosses Bokuto’s face at his next line is taunting, unsettling enough to make Akaashi bristle in discomfort and he’s suddenly on edge.

So when Bokuto gets up from his seat and stands by Akaashi’s side to graciously refill his wine glass, letting the bottle slip from his grasp rather calculatedly, Akaashi’s arm immediately juts out to catch it on pure instinct without the need to even watch what he was doing.

The eye contact in that moment is icily piercing but almost comical at once, Akaashi knowing immediately what he’s done, what he’s staked claim on with the way Bokuto’s eyes scream “got you” like a predator to its prey. Akaashi has never been looked like as if he were prey.

In that split second, he lets the wine bottle clatter to the floor in a loud smash but it’s useless now.

There’s a new dangerous understanding between them both.

-

It takes barely seconds for them to jump into action, Akaashi slipping out under Bokuto’s reach and out into the hallway behind a corner. 

He feels cornered in a way he’s never been subject to even once in his life, not when he’s always the threat but when he hears Bokuto call for him, the way his name rolls off his tongue instinctively alerts Akaashi that he’s in danger.

It’s a waiting game, Akaashi dancing around Bokuto’s footsteps, assessing a way he can get the fuck out of this house as soon as possible.

His husband is still calling for him, and dread crawls up his spine when he hears a telltale noise he’s all too familiar with. 

It’s the cold cock of a gun, and he’s probably willing to use it. 

Now, Bokuto’s footsteps sound as if he’s in the living room and Akaashi wastes not a second of opportunity, grabbing two palm sized knifes from the drawer with split second assurance, and dashing towards the front door.

Then there are two sets of running footsteps, Bokuto alert of his attempt at escape and sprinting to cut him off. Akaashi’s gripped the door handle and is about to swing it open to lithely slip out, when a deafening blast behind him almost bursts his eardrums and a smoking hole appears mere centimetres from his right shoulder.

The onset of searing anger that fills Akaashi is prompt and at full force, and he sees red. _Bokuto just shot at him._ As if their five long, painful years of marriage meant absolutely nothing at all. He saw this coming but _still_.

He’s furious as his grip on the door handle slackens, and he turns slowly, positively vibrating in anger. He turns so slow that Bokuto probably could have killed him by now if he wanted, but the expression on his husband’s face is one of blatant confusion that Akaashi doesn’t understand.

But frankly, he doesn’t care, promptly unsheathing and hurling the two knives he’d brought at Bokuto’s figure with exact precision. With agile reflexes, Bokuto dodges both and they become deeply lodged in the walls behind his head.

There’s a moment of tense eye contact where Akaashi begins to feel his eyes well with tears of frustration, something that hasn’t happened in _years_. Akaashi doesn’t cry, ever. With this, he runs out of the house and seconds later is flooring the gas pedal of his sleek, black car.

-

He’s curving past the bend of their driveway, frustration building up not only at Bokuto, but himself; how could he be so carelessly stupid to let the tension induce him into pretty much giving away his identity. What normal real estate agent would have immaculate reflexes like that?

It’s a such a juvenile mistake to be caught over, and he’s berating himself when he spots Bokuto crashing through the front door to leap over their fence in his pursuit. He almost rolls his eyes, of course Bokuto would attempt to _run_ after a car.

The glint of the gun he’s carrying in unmistakable and he can’t believe Bokuto is still pursuing him with a deadly weapon at hand, when Akaashi simply is in dire need of a moment to think this all over before he does something he’ll regret. 

Bokuto is unrelenting, his white hair gliding in the wind as he catches up to Akaashi around a bend highly inconvenient for a large vehicle to manoeuvre the way Bokuto does, cutting though shrubbery and hedges by way of a shortcut.

By the time Akaashi is out on the other side, Bokuto is already in front of the car, forcing him to come to a jolting halt.

“I really didn’t mean to shoot you Akaashi, it was an accident.” Bokuto says, palms raised, not that Akaashi understands why when he’s already shot at him once and still has a deadly grip on the weapon. He supposes it’s a mislaid gesture of comfort. Ironic.

“Can we talk this out?” Bokuto shouts over the engine, glimmers of hope in his voice, glimmers that make Akaashi laugh incredulously.

the fact that Bokuto even brought his gun to chase Akaashi down, shoots at him, then asks if they can _talk_ sends a smouldering heat that compels Akaashi to force the gas pedal down once more, and he comes hurtling towards Bokuto only for him to protectively tuck and roll the exact same way Akaashi was taught to all of those years ago. 

-

With the suffocating tension and unbearable stagnation of his marriage, Akaashi has found himself at Oikawa’s house countless times these past few weeks, each and every time Oikawa acts displeased and disgruntled, but Akaashi knows it’s simply an act or else he wouldn’t force them to watch countless alien movies to take his mind of things or make sure Akaashi’s eating properly.

After unsuccessfully attempting to bulldoze Bokuto with his Mercedes-Benz, he’d found himself instinctively taking a familiar route towards his best friend’s house.

Oikawa opens the door with a flourish, and his eyes widen comically once he sees Akaashi at his doorstep, not even bothering to question why he came, or why he didn’t announce his plans over text beforehand, ushering him inside hurriedly. 

“I’ve been working for a couple hours this evening,” Oikawa begins as soon as they’re settled on the couch, barely giving Akaashi any time to adjust, “I think I know who the other assassin is.”

Akaashi lifts his head and stares at Oikawa in deadpan, who clearly expected a larger reaction than the lacklustre one he’s being presented with, but Akaashi cuts him off before he has chance to complain, “It’s my husband. I know.”

Oikawa winces in sympathy, sensing the catastrophe of events that had occurred just half an hour before, and moves to embrace Akaashi, “Well, at least you don’t love him. You can kill him and be over with hopefully.”

Oikawa is right. Knowing the industry well, Bokuto’s probably been assigned to kill Akaashi too, and if the money and job security talks loud enough, the war has already been started. He doesn’t even love Bokuto anyways, and he’s lost more people than he can count on both hands. This is no different to the everyday struggles that come with the life he’d signed up for.

Still, he can’t shake the unsettling, unwilling feelings that pools in his gut as Oikawa begins to ramble on about Iwaizumi to distract him from the situation.

-

Being at work the next day turns out to be a very odd experience. All around him there are people analysing his own wedding tapes, random possessionsc, sheltered recordings of their voices echoing throughout the room and he knows that there are currently teams ransacking his home for any background research on his husband.

It’s stupid but Akaashi feels like a piece of himself is being violated. He’s so used to keeping his two starkly opposite lives completely separate, and his home is meant to be untouched by the world of the underground. This is his and Bokuto’s _privacy_ regardless of how tattered their marriage was. The uncomfortable feeling doesn’t leave him for the entire day.

Now, Bokuto’s probably in the next city, unknowingly being scrutinised by teams of professionals. Akaashi briefly wonders if the research teams at Nekoma are virtually dissecting him too and how Bokuto feels about it.

Surprisingly, it came as rather a shock when they’d found out that Bokuto works for Nekoma, one of Seijou’s battling rivals in the field, and it’s almost ironic how things had to end up this way.

He has to kill Bokuto, or Bokuto has to kill him. Either way, one of them dies and another completes a mission, or their deteriorating marriage somehow miraculously resurfaces for the last few moments. Who knows, this may even end up being fun.

It sounds like a win-win situation to Akaashi. 

He doesn’t even sound like himself when he orders for his team to find Bokuto’s exact location, no matter how many databases they have to search.

A bustling calm settles over the unit for a few minutes before Sugawara is calling for their attention, “What if I told you he’s right here.”

Sugawara beckons them to stare at his screen, in which a plethora of security cameras throughout the office have been pulled up, and one with a greenish, pixelated tint catches his attention.

It’s a night vision camera observing narrow tunnels throughout the building, and there’s a figure crawling through them with a flashlight attached to his headband and unruly silver hair flashes the lens.

Bokuto’s in the fucking vents.

Akaashi is moving on autopilot as he stands by the computer, ushering Sugawara to connect the audio system between his and the vent cameras, “Bokuto-san?”

His voice comes out crackly on the other side most likely, but Bokuto’s head tilts in confusion towards the cameras and Akaashi’s satisfied enough, “I thought I told you not to bother me during work hours, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto speaks, and his voice comes out unmatched to the visuals, seconds later than the video footage but his tone is loud and clear all the same, he frowns childishly, “So you don’t want to talk this out.”

“You’re already here, and something tells me you aren’t here just to talk.” Akaashi speaks, a weird thrill running through his veins. This is the most naturally he and Bokuto have spoken in months.

Bokuto shrugs as best as he can in such narrow circumstances, “fair enough. But I really didn’t know it was you that day ‘Kaashi.”

The nickname makes Akaashi tense for an odd reason, “Don’t call me that.”

“You used to like it, in many different situations.” Bokuto says suggestively, eyebrow raising and Akaashi blushes at Bokuto’s audacity to try embarrass him in his place of work. He has a _reputation_ here.

“Keep talking shit, Bokuto.” Akaashi warns with a glare, though his husband can’t see him.

Akaashi has a very clear view of his menacing smile however, a red button attached to his sleeve suddenly becoming glaringly obvious, “Careful, I could push this button at any moment and have it all over.”

The team behind him are all scuffling to get a layout on exactly what Bokuto’s threatening, but Akaashi barely listens. He thinks he hears some commotion about bombs in the confusion behind him but he wouldn’t exactly be a reliable source.

“Baby, you’re in my place of work, stuck in my systems. Good luck.” Akaashi turns away from the system then, Sugawara minimising the cameras and opening a large layout of their headquarters and rapidly typing away at things Akaashi barely understands.

He sighs, of course Bokuto would do something as grandiose as attempt blow up his entire offices, and everyone’s now grabbing their zip wire guns stashed in the large safe, preparing for escape though they’ve seen no sign of any bombs on the systems.

Akaashi prepares, but he has a feeling that the blast is never going to come and he instantly knows Bokuto’s on his way.

-

The high rise floor to ceiling windows typically provide great view on a long day at work, overlooking the city skyscrapers and bustling life beneath them, but now, the entire team is leaping out of the glass opening and grabbing onto their zip wire.

Akaashi’s the last one still in the room, his grabble secured onto the next building over, prepared to leap out towards safety but something juvenile compels him to wait a moment longer, and Bokuto bursts into the room with a pistol pointed directly at his face as if on cue.

It’s satisfactory seeing Bokuto slouch in disappointment at the empty room bar Akaashi, and he waits not a moment longer before he’s letting himself fall out of the window with an elegant smile and catching the zip wire.

He gliding so fast he barely has time to be concerned about the manner in which Bokuto is recklessly shooting out of the opening at Akaashi, and once his feet finally touch ground with the opposite building and his zip wire detaches he turns to face his husband, metres away.

Bokuto throws his head out of the window, and the wind catches and runs through his hair, laughing loudly he calls out, “Chicken shit!”

Akaashi shakes his head and feels so stupidly amused, calling back out at his husband with a grin, “Coward!”

He ignores the looks he gets from his colleagues as they work on figuring out exactly how to get off of the roof of this skyscraper.

-

Akaashi’s stationed at some construction site in a cramped trailer with his team, observing the routine and work habits of another target Akaashi had accepted prior to the botched mission, and he rolls his eyes at the sight of a familiar face on one of the elevator cameras.

He barely has to make any suggestive gesture towards a plan of action before Kyoutani is pressing a series of buttons to stop the elevator in its tracks, effectively trapping Bokuto. He truly was a man of action.

“Akaashi sweetheart, is that you?” Bokuto looks up at the CCTV camera they’d hacked as a precaution and waves, “I was hoping you’d do that, babe. I wasn’t quite sure you’d still be here.”

To be honest, Akaashi has no idea how Bokuto had managed to intercept the confidential information that he’d be here, especially since it was in relation to a mission. The team also seem mildly confused by the turn of events, but they’d gotten all the information they really need on this particular target. 

Bokuto was free game.

“It’s funny we keep meeting through security cameras, Bokuto, I haven’t seen much of you recently.” Akaashi smiles in a pretence of casual conversation, satisfied that he’s managed to corner Bokuto when he’d been trying to decipher his location for hours on end.

“That’s because you’re never home anymore.” Bokuto says sarcastically, and Akaashi’s eyes narrow.

Akaashi smiles with exhilaration; he’s winning this, “First and last warning, Bokuto-san. Leave town.”

Leaning against the elevator wall with a cocky expression etched on his features, Bokuto looks increasingly punchable, “ _I’m_ not going anywhere.”

“Oh, but that’s what you think.” Akaashi deadpans, “Right now you’re trapped in a steel box meters above nothing but air.”

He hears his colleagues muttering something about the feedback originating from car three, and that the emergency explosives they’d planted earlier are still intact. Perfect, Akaashi smiles.

He wastes no more time on their trivial debate, setting an ultimatum that’ll hopefully wipe the egoistic grin off of his face, “Promise to leave or I’ll blow it”

He relishes in the visible confusion of Bokuto’s face once explosives are brought into the equation, but his next words contradict the plan of events Akaashi had thought out.

“Ok, blow it.” 

“You’ll die, Bokuto.” Akaashi warns, unbelieving. He ignores the small part of him that desires that Bokuto just surrenders, and avoids crossing paths with Nishinoya’s explosives once more.

“Blow it.” Bokuto enunciates, and his overconfidence strikes a nerve in Akaashi.

“You think I won’t.” Akaashi is aware he’s stalling, but he doesn’t even know why. Bokuto’s clearly made his decision.

“No, I don’t think you will.” 

Akaashi blinks twice, incredulous. He always said Bokuto’s overconfidence would get him killed, he just hadn’t meant it so literally.

Clenching his teeth, Akaashi steels himself, and prepares for the time he knew was coming sooner or later, “Any last words?”

Bokuto contemplates for a moment, visibly not grasping the gravity of the situation he’s put himself in, “The new curtains are hideous.”

Akaashi closes his eyes briefly and sighs in exasperation, “Goodbye Bokuto-san.”

In that split second, the screen goes black and a thundering crash sounds from the building they’d been observing, and Akaashi instantly knows what’s happened.

Snapping his head towards his team that’d been watching the entire altercation, he fights the urge to swear viciously at Kyoutani, who’s finger still lay atop the button he’d pressed.

“What did you do?” Akaashi whispers gravely, a devastating feeling sinking into his shoes.

Kyoutani looks generally unbothered, even slightly confused at the heat in Akaashi’s words suddenly being directed at him. He shrugs in defiance and indignantly defends himself, “You _said_ goodbye. That’s a cue if I’ve ever seen one.”

He whips back towards the cacophony of screens he’s being presented with, and he hates the glimmer of idiotic hope he feels when he spots a familiar figure discreetly crossing one of the hallways leading away from elevator cart number two.

Bokuto’s always been smarter than he was ever credited for.

\- 

They’re at some overly expensive, luxurious hall where one of them had followed the other as has become their daily routine, this game of cat and mouse, push and pull.

The hall has an elegant, controlled atmosphere that leaves Akaashi slightly on edge. Almost everything he sets his eyes on is plated in delicate, shimmering gold, from the draping chandeliers to the cutlery he’s seldom using. He doesn’t feel very hungry.

It’s a black tie event, and he’s dressed in one of the best suits the company could hire for him, a firm but elegant material that shapes the long lines of his body perfectly.

Bokuto’s been lingering on the other side of the vast ballroom for the better part of an hour, strictly oberving Akaashi’s every movement above a glass of wine, until he finally waltzes through the dancing bodies in the center of the room towards Akaashi. 

He’s also wearing a very obviously expensive suit, that leaves not much to the imagination without the blazer he’d ditched a while ago due to the warm temperature in the hall, and Akaashi feels slightly playful for reasons he doesn’t quite sort through.

“Can I sit?” Bokuto asks, though Akaashi doesn’t quite understand the courtesy as they’ve been making countless unsuccessful attempts at each other’s lives for almost two whole days.

Since Bokuto asked so politely, Akaashi’ll give him an answer, “No. You can’t.”

Bokuto sits anyways, much as Akaashi had expected him to but he doesn’t object, just observes. The atmosphere between them is slightly different from the competitive, cutthroat undercurrent that’s been running viscously through their veins. Now, there’s an odd air of what Akaashi can only describe as acceptance, and an incredible passionate tension he can’t accurately place.

“We have a problem, Akaashi,” His husband leans back into his chair, and Akaashi raises an eyebrow in idle curiosity, “You want me dead, and I’m beginning to care less and less about your wellbeing.”

“And what do we do about that, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi teases, leaning in, strangely attracted to the charged energy between the two.

”Dance with me.” Bokuto suddenly stands to his full height, extending his palm towards Akaashi in a way that instantly slams him with an overload of painful nostalgia. Staring up at Bokuto’s alluring features in this light once again tugs at Akaashi’s heart in a way he doesn’t understand. He grasps onto the offered hand, and joins Bokuto on the dance floor.

It’s not entirely reminiscent of the fateful night they first met, their harmonious practised steps tinted with an element of underplayed aggression. Evident in the manner of which Bokuto subtlety but forcefully presses him against a towering pillar for a moment, leaving Akaashi with a sore spot on his still healing back, or the way Akaashi pulls roughly at Bokuto’s wrist in revenge, the resulting crack sounding like music to his ears.

Still, Akaashi can’t deny the sensual tension that still swims between them, palpable and heavy as Bokuto’s hand slides firmly around him, and he subconsciously presses even closer. Bokuto still smells as heavenly as he did eight years ago, and maybe the smell of timber is even more intoxicating now.

A series of small holes on his husband’s left ear catches Akaashi’s attention, and he softly thumbs the two new additions he’d never noticed, “I thought you hated piercings.”

Bokuto shrugs noncommittally, and murmurs, “part of my cover.”

Fair enough.

Their faces are so, so close, breath mingling smoothly, and Akaashi barely resists when Bokuto’s other hand slides up his shirt to unhook the knife he’d secured earlier, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

Bokuto attempts to jab him with the knife lazily, Akaashi easily blocking the attack, then with precision almost as accurate as his own, Bokuto flings the blade in a direction no one’s paying attention towards, wedging itself directly in the middle of a portrait.

“Why do you think we failed?” Akaashi breathes, centimetres from Bokuto’s lips, “Was it just bound to happen or was it the leading separate lives?” 

A slow smirk crosses Bokuto’s face, revealing no genuine emotion, “You killed us.”

Akaashi’s eyebrows furrow, and he’s slighted by the statement. It reminds him of a time where they were happily married and built over a foundation of love and respect, and if anything _Bokuto_ killed their marriage, “Why do you care if I was just cover?”

Bokuto seems caught off guard at that, his calculated expression slipping for just a moment, “Who said you were just cover?”

“Wasn’t I?”

“Wasn’t _I_?” Bokuto retorts.

In the blink of an eye, the charged moment has dissipated and Akaashi remembers exactly what he ventured here to complete.

-

Akaashi’s phone rings with an annoying chime that serves to irritate him further when he’s already vexed over messing up yet again. Of course Bokuto’d noticed the bomb he’d planted him with, and had gotten away at that in some poor man’s stolen car.

Therefore, seeing Bokuto’s name glint across his screen sends a surge of unreasonable frustration down his system, still, he answers, eyes focused on the road ahead of him.

“That’s the second time you’ve tried to kill me” Bokuto complains indignantly over the sound of a car engine rumbling in the background, and Akaashi can imagine the expression on his face.

“You started it that day in the vents.” 

“I’m just saying, I’m going home and burning everything you ever bought me, ‘kaashi.” The trivial banter feels odd but strangely comforting in a situation like this. Especially when Akaashi has a strange sense that the culmination of everything they’ve been through is steadily approaching.

“I’ll race you there, Bokuto-san.”

-

Akaashi’s been driving for about twenty minutes, lost in deep thought as the world passes him by in split second frames and there’s a strange feeling that keeps washing over him, like he’s driving towards a bitter end. The feeling attaches itself to his ankles like a brace of an unimaginable weight, and his soul feels drained, weary.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts once again by another incoming call from his husband. He answers.

“Are you there yet?” Bokuto chimes, and Akaashi answers his question, to which he’s returned with another one.

“When we first met, how did you feel?”

The question seems to echo around the small car, reverberating off of each wall and it’s meaning increases by a ten fold each time. 

Akaashi breathes, “You first.”

Bokuto takes a deep breath, “I though you looked like danger, Akaashi. Alluring danger, I couldn’t get enough.” 

He knows he’s not imagining the complacent sadness that lingers in Bokuto’s tone, a wrenching acceptance of a difficult truth, and strangely enough Akaashi understands.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens as he feels a weird emotion grapple onto his throat and constrict his breathing, a sadness he can’t describe, “Why are you telling me this now?”

Akaashi just knows there’s a sad smile painted across his husbands face, “I guess in the end you start thinking about the beginning.”

Akaashi forces his breathing pattern to regulate once again, and speaks clearly though his voice is hoarse with poorly hidden emotion, “I thought you looked like you’d be a beautiful target.”

“As expected from cold Akaashi.” Bokuto scoffs quietly and the moment of fragmented vulnerability between the two is gone almost as soon as it came.

“It was all business, huh.” he laughs emotionlessly and says no more, but Akaashi hears the pained silence as loud as a scream.

The call ends shortly after their strange exchange and Akaashi doesn’t know how to feel. He chalks the single tear running down his face up to being overwhelmed.

He’s about to kill his husband after all.

-

He’d gotten home mere minutes before Bokuto and that’d gifted him ample time to leisurely select what gun he’d like to blow holes through his house with in his nth attempt to finally finish the fucking job.

Maybe a shotgun wasn’t the most practical choice he could have made for such a close quartered battle with someone of equalled battle excellence, but Akaashi thinks the lethality and size serve more to prove a point than advantage him.

He’s loading and checking his rounds when he hears quiet shuffling from elsewhere in the house and his nerves strike a worrying high as he takes his defensive stance at the top of the stairs. Honestly speaking, he was completely prepared for Bokuto to stroll through the front door as if their lives weren’t dangling on a precarious line, but it looks like today Bokuto’s finally picked up on the gloriously useful nuances of subtlety.

The stagnant silence in the house is almost deafening.

Taking practiced aim, Akaashi patiently waits for all hell to inevitably break loose.

It’s surprisingly much earlier than he expected, but Bokuto mistakenly gives away his position behind a wall while trying to strategically pinpoint his. 

Akaashi forces himself to bide his time wisely after spotting Bokuto attempt to reveal his position using the reflection of one of their old framed photos together. Suffocated, he feels like his heart’s climbing a torturous path up his throat but he waits avidly, holding his fire, until he catches his own eye under the glassy glint of their photograph, choosing that moment to unload unto Bokuto with perfect aim. 

Well, almost perfect.

The photograph certainly shatters and Akaashi catches a glimpse of mirthful smiles of adoration before it clatters to the floor, but it’s not even seconds later until a sudden shower of bullets cascade just over the top of his head, Bokuto firing relentlessly at him from his sheltered position behind a thin wall.

To that, Akaashi blows two colossal holes into the plaster in retaliation, where he’s hoping Bokuto’s head would still be.

“Still there, baby?” Akaashi calls out, sweetening his tone in false kindness whilst he tightens his grip on the metallic barrel of his shotgun.

Unfortunately Bokuto responds in affirmative.

Feeling a strange emotion of detached frustration rise in his system, he charges down the remaining stairs he hadn’t fallen down in his escape of the sudden gunfire, hot in Bokuto’s pursuit but it’s not long when another tense silence settles over the surburban house.

He’s lost Bokuto _again_ and he curses in bitter frustration, knowing that the pivotal element of surprise was no longer in his favour nor even Bokuto’s. He should’ve just killed Bokuto when he had the chance the day earlier.

Neither prey nor predator, a foreign experience to Akaashi, he stalks throughout the house they’ve shared years of memories within, gun poised in practised preparation, with the rubble beneath his shoes leaving a trail of fine dust behind him. If the circumstances weren’t so dire, he’d probably have freaked out at the notion of wearing shoes in the house.

Akaashi’s even contemplating just calling out to Bokuto at this point, all hope lost upon him until the shrill sound of glass shattering sounds on the opposite side of the wall he’s directly staring at. A novice mistake on Bokuto’s part and a _dead_ giveaway.

He smirks and his instinctive reaction is instantaneous, shooting in the precise direction the telltale noise came from, but he can also hear the sound of Bokuto already bolting in the opposite direction and he silently curses himself for choosing to operate a shotgun, his rate of fire much too slow to keep up with Bokuto’s pace when he can’t even fucking see him.

Bokuto ducks behind cover of their kitchen island just as Akaashi approaches, but not before sending a rain of bullets in his direction which thankfully all narrowly miss Akaashi’s head by millimetres.

Momentarily, another bout of tranquility transcends as Akaashi slinks by the wall next to the doorway in order to sling the deadly sub-machine gun from over his back, locking and loading not a second later. 

Returning onto his path into the kitchen reveals Bokuto to be stealthily attempting to leave his cover, but before Akaashi can even think about taking aim, a metallic sound slices through the air and he’s ducking once again to miss the bladed edge of a butcher knife hurtling his direction. 

“Your aim’s shit.” He teasingly calls out into the tense atmosphere. 

It isn’t, had he been a second later he’d probably be headless right now but Bokuto indulges, yelling, “Your aim’s so impeccable, you should probably think about transferring some of that skill to your cooking. I’m tired of eating my own shit every night.”

Akaashi can hear the smile in Bokuto’s voice and laughs himself, but milliseconds later, Bokuto’s shooting towards the sound of his voice and he ducks once more.

With catlike reflexes he’s returning to his full height and shooting at Bokuto again, who resourcefully uses the fridge door as a makeshift shield, his bullets embedding themselves into the metal, warping the door into jagged juts of gunfire. Unknowingly, Akaashi exhausts his ammunition stock and Bokuto abandons his weapon to opportunely strike by charging into Akaashi with full force, sending them crashing into a cabinet.

Glass shatters all around them as they grapple to wreak injury on each other, Akaashi’s prized Daewoo K1 tumbling out of his hands. They’re desperately scrabbling to gain a hit on each other, Bokuto dragging Akaashi forwards from the cabinet in attempt to punch him only for the younger to slam his husband into the wall so powerfully he actually hears the wind escape from his lungs. 

Their battle for dominance quickly morphs into a battle for survival as punch after punch is thrown until Akaashi is swallowing bouts of his own blood and their soundtrack is the smashing of every delicate item so intricately placed throughout their house. It’s all shattering to pieces and Akaashi briefly wonders how they went from blissful love and happiness to progressive attempts to take each other’s life. 

He pulls himself out of his own thoughts by breaking a vase over the top of Bokuto’s head when the pain of his strangling hold on his neck becomes unbearable and in the moment that he’s disoriented, Akaashi performs a harsh kick into his side that brings him falling to the ground, but not without ensuring a hand around his ankle that sends Akaashi crashing down with him.

On the floor, they’re rolling around aggressively, seemingly taking turns to beat the living daylights out of each other, jagged edges of broken possessions cutting into their skin. It’s a bloody fight that goes on for what feels like hours, a fruitless battle between two people who know each other like the back of their hands. 

Akaashi’s found that even though this sector of his life was completely hidden to Bokuto until now, he’s still able to predict his every move and knows where to hit Akaashi so that it _hurts_.

It’s like clockwork when they violently push away from each other at the exact same moment and scrabble to reach for their long forgotten guns, somehow getting mixed up and end up ironically staring down the barrels of their own weapons. It’s been a long time since Akaashi had last been in this position. 

It’s seconds but it drags like excruciating hours and not a single shot is fired. He’d been so fucking prepared to end this all right here, sign for his check the next morning and move out of town, but here he is staring his husband (and his gun) in the face, unable to move with a collection of old emotions he hasn’t felt in years rekindling in the pits of his stomach.

Tension rises as their fingers lay not a hair’s distance from securing a single fate and Akaashi’s trying so _fucking_ hard to get into the headspace he’d been in his entire adult life, where he’d be able to kill his husband but at this point, it’d be better for Bokuto to just shoot him instead, to show that there was nothing between them anymore, that their marriage wasn’t anything more than an experience-

Bokuto lowers his arm in designation, “I can’t do it.” He breathes, shrugging softly and Akaashi trembles in anger but he doesn’t even know why he’s so worked up.

“You can’t jus-” Akaashi wants to cry, to _scream_ in bitter, bitter frustration. 

“What are you _doing_ , Bokuto?” He finally whispers, a silent ‘to me’ echoing in the tension, because subconsciously he knows that if he were to speak even a fraction louder, his voice would reveal things he wasn’t ready to accept yet. 

“Don’t you dare do this to me, Bokuto-san.”

Memories of their first night together, where the moon had shone a comforting serenity and their first date where Bokuto had taken him to an fair only to throw a tantrum that he couldn’t win anything for Akaashi. When they’d whispered their vows to each other, a private promise of a further of adoration and prosperity come to mind and Akaashi feels suffocated with emotion.

He’s reminded of all the occasions when Bokuto had attempted to teach Akaashi how to cook only to end in misery, giggling uncontrollably at Akaashi’s sheer kitchen instead settling for ordering takeout to Bokuto’s defiance.

The strange pain of coming to terms that there’s still something there for the man he thought he’d fallen out of love with sears burning holes in Akaashi’s heart, but still he pushes his gun into Bokuto’s face, trying to entice him to give him any incentive to carry out this mission like every other one he’s completed.

But Bokuto stays limp, his gun clattering to the floor, “You want the kill? It’s yours.”

Akaashi struggles, and he’s poorly attempting to conceal the tears that are dangerously threatening to spill, trying to respond just to fill the charged silence, but how do you respond to your husband offering his life in the name of your mission?

It turns out, he doesn’t need to, Bokuto meeting his gaze dubiously but his eyes instantly firm with mysterious confirmation, “You can’t, can you?”

Akaashi’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly but his husband is already walking towards him, knocking his handgun away with disregard and surging forwards to meet his lips in a deprived, passionate kiss. Akaashi’s mind goes blank as he kisses back, the taste of metallic blood prevalent but also irrelevant when the regret and love he feels is so incredibly overwhelming.

He feels himself being backed against a table which they surprisingly hadn’t wrecked, and a moan is ripped from his throat when Bokuto’s hands secure around the back of his thighs to hoist him up and set him purchase on the levelled surface. He’s running his hands through Bokuto’s hair frantically as their hips grind together in tandem, their breaths mingling intimately. 

It hurts, it really fucking hurts but it’s so fucking good being close to Bokuto again and feeling the content he never thought he’d feel again. Though they’re both covered in deep gashes and tender bruises, the filling feeling of wholeness remains with him the whole night as Bokuto takes him right on their living room table, right by the curtains Bokuto hates, and he thinks he feels a few tears cascade down his cheeks blended with the devastating pain and the warm pleasure.

-

First, the excruciating pain that wreaks havoc on his entire body is what occupies Akaashi’s mind for the first few minutes after waking up. Then promptly, he does some problem solving and the frenzy of chaotic events that took place last night which caused said excruciating pain flood Akaashi’s memories as soon as he wakes up, and he immediately feels immense levels of stress and confusion settle over him as well.

Instantly, he moves to get up from his position on the couch and get far, far away but Bokuto’s already awake and he feels his heart stop. It had been almost over a year since they’d had any form of contact more than a courteous greeting and now they’ve beaten each other to near death, but also had sex in the same time frame. Wild.

His thoughts are all over the place and hectic, lost inside his head when he feels Bokuto’s hand rest on his shoulder and he breathes a soft “hey” by his ear that makes him shudder in response.

“Stop thinking, Keiji.” And for the first time in years he doesn’t bristle at the endearing use of his first name and something tells him that it’s because it’s different now that he’s not using it to spite him at the dinner table after a tense discussion, or to threaten his life once again.

It feels _normal_ and Akaashi’s almost brought to tears at the sound, because in all these years, he can finally admit that normal is something he’s grown to dearly miss. When their normal was going grocery shopping together just to spend time with each other, when normal was stealing kisses and hugs just to see the smile that lit up the other’s face.

They had a normal once, and though their past few days had been everything but, maybe they could settle into a new normal. A normal far from perfect but one where there was no more lying, no more silent discomfort; and he hears all of this in Bokuto’s simple ‘Keiji’ and the arm that rubs his side with soft, soothing strokes. 

So, he decides to listen to Bokuto.

He stops thinking.

-

**Author's Note:**

> listen


End file.
